She pats my hand. "Good. You're good for this place, Scout. Good for them."
After she leaves, Finn materializes at my desk. "She's adopted you."
"She barely knows me."
"Doesn't matter. That's how it works here." He grabs a cookie. "You show up, you stay, you become part of the town. There's no trial period. No probation. You're just... in."
"That's terrifying."
"That's Coyote Bend." He takes a bite, makes an appreciative sound. "God, Mrs. Castellano's cookies are lethal. I'm gonna gain fifty pounds working here."
"You literally burned off every calorie you've consumed this week by noon."
"Details." He grins at me. "You fitting in okay? Like, actually okay?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. I think so. Why?"
"Just checking." He's serious now, the humor dropping away. "You looked scared that first day. Like you were ready to bolt at any second."
"I was."
"But you didn't."
"No." I look around the shop—at Holt working under a hood, at the organized desk, at the space I've somehow claimed in less than two weeks. "I didn't."
"Good." He squeezes my shoulder. "We'd miss you if you left. Well, Holt would. I'd be fine."
"Liar."
"Okay, I'd miss you a little. But don't let it go to your head."
That evening, I make dinner again. Spaghetti, same as before, because my cooking repertoire is limited and I'm not trying to impress anyone. Holt comes up around sunset, covered in grease and sweat, and stops when he sees two plates on the table.
"You don't have to keep doing this," he says.
"I know." I hand him a fork. "But I made extra and eating alone is depressing, so you're doing me a favor. Sit."
He sits.
We eat.
And somewhere between the first bite and the last, the silence shifts from comfortable to something warmer. Something that feels like home but I'm not ready to name it yet.
After dinner, we do dishes together in that tiny kitchen. Our routine now. Me washing, him drying, elbows bumping in the cramped space. The intimacy of it hits me all at once—how domestic this is, how normal, how we've fallen into patterns like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
"Holt?" I say, hands still in the soapy water.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the creamer. And the car. And—" I gesture vaguely. "Everything."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I know. But I want to."
He nods, doesn't say anything else, but his hand brushes mine as he takes the last plate. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary.
I retreat to the bedroom thinking about tire pressure and coffee creamer and the way his voice sounds when he's teaching me things.
